It was a black silk hat. Once it had been shiny. Now it was mostly bald. Old tramps wore better hats.
It could have been designed to look like a big pile of dollars, it could have been a crown, it could have been set with small jewelled scenes depicting embezzlement through the ages, the progression of negotiable currency from snot to little white shells and cows and all the way to gold. It could have said something about the magic of money. It could have been good.
A black top hat. No style. No style at all.
'Mr Bent, can you arrange for someone to go over to the Post Office and get them to bring my stuff over here?' said Moist, looking glumly at the wreck.
'Of course, Master.'
'I think "Mr Lipwig" will be fine, thank you.'
'Yes, sir. Of course.'
Moist sat down at the enormous desk and ran his hands lovingly across the worn green leather.
Vetinari, damn him, had been right. The Post Office had made him cautious and defensive. He'd run out of challenges, run out of fun.
Thunder grumbled, away in the distance, and the afternoon sun was being threatened by blue-black clouds. One of those heavy all-night storms was rolling in from the plains. There tended to be more crimes on rainy nights these days, according to the Times. Apparently it was because of the werewolf in the Watch: rain made smells hard to track.
After a while Peggy brought him an omelette containing absolutely no mention of the word 'garlic'. And shortly after that, Gladys arrived with his wardrobe. All of it, including the door, carried under one arm. It bounced off the walls and ceiling as she lumbered with it across the carpet and dropped it in the middle of the big bedroom floor.
Moist went to follow her, but she held up her huge hands in horror.
'No, Sir! Let Me Come Out First!'
She clumped past him into the hallway. 'That Was Nearly Very Bad,' she said.
Moist waited to see if anything more was forthcoming, and then prompted: 'Why, exactly?'
'A Man And A Young Woman Should Not Be In The Same Bedroom,' said the golem with solemn certitude.
'Er, how old are you, Gladys?' said Moist carefully.
'One Thousand And Fifty-Four Years, Mr Lipwig.'
'Er, right. And you are made of clay. I mean, everyone's made of clay, in a manner of speaking, but, as a golem, you are, as it were, er... very made of clay...'
'Yes, Mr Lipwig, But I Am Not Married.'
Moist groaned. 'Gladys, what did the counter girls give you to read this time?' he said.
'It Is Lady Deirdre Waggon's Prudent Advice For Young Women,' said Gladys. 'It Is Most Interesting. It Is How Things Are Done.' She pulled a slim book out of the huge pocket in her dress. It had a chintzy look.
Moist sighed. It was the kind of old-fashioned etiquette book that'd tell you Ten Things Not To Do With Your Parasol. 'I see,' he said.
He didn't know how to explain. Even worse, he didn't know what he'd be explaining. Golems were... golems. Big lumps of clay with the spark of life in them. Clothes? What for? Even the male golems in the Post Office just had a lick of blue and gold paint to make them look smart - Hold on, he was catching it now! There were no male golems! Golems were golems, and had been happy to be just golems for thousands of years! And now they were in modern Ankh-Morpork, where all kinds of races and people and ideas were shaken up and it was amazing what dripped out of the bottle.
Without a further word Gladys clumped across the hallway, turned round and stood still. The glow in her eyes settled down to a dull red. And that was it. She had decided to stay.
In his in-tray, Mr Fusspot snored.
Moist took out the half-bill that Cosmo had given him.
Desert island. Desert island. I know I think best when I'm under pressure, but what exactly did I mean?
On a desert island gold is worthless. Food gets you through times of no gold much better than gold gets you through times of no food. If it comes to that, gold is worthless in a goldmine, too. The medium of exchange in a goldmine is the pickaxe.
Hmm. Moist stared at the bill. What does it need to make it worth ten thousand dollars? The seal and signature of Cosmo, that's what. Everyone knows he's good for it. Good for nothing but money, the bastard.